


and to face / suddenly the lighted living hills

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Coulson's office, Daisy is the cutest, Drinking, F/M, Season/Series 03, this was meant to be an Easter fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 14:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6379342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy knocks at Coulson's office door at night.</p><p>(I know - practically half of my fics start like this.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and to face / suddenly the lighted living hills

**Author's Note:**

> I swear this was going to be Easter fluff but this was all I could think of. :)

It’s been one of the worst possible missions they’ve been on. They’ve been cooperating with the army to publicly reveal a few dirty facts about Malick and his daughter, and they have at least partly succeeded, but it’s at a large cost. Talbot’s lost two of his people, four civilians have died thanks to an explosion Malick coordinated from a safe distance to blow up the building they were in (but which was impeded by Daisy vibrating the explosives further away). Mack’s been hurt; they all have their bruises and cuts, sure, but his right arm is in a sling (it makes Jemma apologize for not being Bobbi, which Coulson finds remarkably perceptive, but still out of place).

Coulson’s been doing a good job lately, being in charge again, but this is the result of the major setback (and loss) they have suffered since the conference, and even though they probably have managed just fine, relatively, this is the first time that everything feels wrong again. Losing Bobbi and Hunter was one thing (even though Daisy is sure that pretty much everyone on the base considers it _two_ things, especially Mack), but this here, this is the first time it looks like they’re moving backwards, and it’s the first time in weeks Coulson really looks incredibly tired, again.

It’s Wednesday night when Daisy walks past Coulson’s office and stops to listen if there _really_ is no music to be heard inside, because that would be a first, at this time of night at least (whenever Coulson can’t sleep, there’s absolutely stunning jazz floating almost inaudibly through the corridor). She hesitates before knocking, but then just does it anyway because she figures he could always keep standing in the doorframe if he didn’t want her to come in.

It takes him a moment to open the door, and she’s wondering if that’s a good sign or a bad sign, then reminds herself that it’s virtually impossible to really tell them apart (mostly, “signs” are just signs and it’s pretty easy to interpret them in hindsight, not in advance). He appears in the narrow illuminated strip his table lamp sheds out onto the corridor, and he seems genuinely surprised that she’s still wearing the damaged civilian clothes she’s gone on mission with (he’s wearing one of those grey hoodies, the triumphantly large S.H.I.E.L.D. logo on the front seeming a little ironic right now). She shrugs, and he steps aside to let her in.

She sits down to face him, wants to say something like _rough day_ , just to say something, then sees his face and just reaches over his desk, accidentally (or, to be honest, not so accidentally) brushing his fingers as a possible gesture of comfort as she steals his tumbler, drinks from it. He doesn’t even look particularly surprised at that, just leans to the side to open a drawer and puts the bottle onto the table. It’s not even Scotch, it’s red wine, and with Coulson, that’s always a reason to worry a little, because of all drinks in the world, it’s the one that makes him overthink things the most.

Looking around, waiting for him to indicate where this could be going (or not going, because he’s not saying anything), she notices his undercover glasses on a stack of files, one side cracked. She reaches over and puts them on; they are a little lopsided and she pushed one side upwards with a demonstratively extended index finger. It earns her a small attempted smile, at least, and she smiles back, pours more wine. Raising the glass so fast that he thinks she’s going to knock it over, she empties it in one go, slowly but determinedly. 

Lowering her hand, for a moment, she doesn’t know what to do, then fills the glass again, emptying the bottle.  
“Share?”  
He nods.  
They wordlessly take turns drinking, Daisy giving Coulson the possibility to finish whatever he is fighting out with himself right now. When the wine is gone, his eyes finally meet hers.  
Aware of how seemingly hopeless this night feels, she tries to sound upbeat.  
“So we could either open another bottle of wine –“ – Coulson looks surprised, but not reluctant, rather on the contrary – “or we could open another bottle of wine _and_ eat.”  
That, finally, makes him chuckle, and she’s glad to be able to just smile back.

“Not really hungry,” he says, and he already sounds a little better than he looks.  
“You know it’s Easter, though,” she offers, and he’s genuinely shocked, like he’s been forced to think about so many things and has simply forgotten that it’s the last weekend in March.  
“Well, good thing at least one of us remembered,” she chirps. “To be fair though, that was Jemma, she boiled and coloured some eggs like a few days ago. She totally forgot about them, but I just stole one from the fridge, it’s for you. Look –“  
She produces an egg from her jacket pocket, bright red, P H I L written across it in permanent marker (she knows that’s not the healthiest thing to do, but then again, what are you supposed to write this stuff with –), places it in front of Coulson.  
“I was going to give it to you earlier, but you sort of disappeared and I thought, maybe tomorrow, but then I saw you still had the lights on in your office and I just thought, why not.”

Coulson is staring at the Easter egg like it’s the most beautiful, the single most wondrous thing in the whole world; he doesn’t dare touch it, for fear it might still be some kind of hallucination (to be fair, he’s had one or two glasses of Scotch before the wine, so who knows) and just disintegrate if he gets any closer.  
“You don’t have to eat it right now, you know,” she interrupts, a smile in her voice, because Coulson’s eyes are still fixed on this little red thing. “We could always just drink, I hear that’s okay after sundown,” she continues, obviously teasing him, but it helps convince Coulson that _this is actually happening_ , Daisy’s just brought him a red Easter egg with his first name on it in perfect capitals. And she’s sitting right in front of him, playing with an empty tumbler, smiling at him like it’s the most natural thing she can think of doing.

And Coulson swears it’s just the fact that the desk is right there between them that he’s not walking over to her, hugging her (who knows, possibly also kissing her) right now. Yes, he’s been drinking, but this, _this_ is so practical, so real that it almost hurts a little to think about it. He’s probably making a huge fool of himself right now, but he’s looking at her now the way he looked at the egg, like she’s the most unbelievable thing on this planet (to be fair, that’s probably true), and she seems to notice. His hands are already on his knees, he wants to walk over there so badly and just hold her, have her see that he, too, is only human, and painfully so, explain the past eight months without speaking.

That’s when she places the tumbler down with an audible clink, almost jumps out of her chair to walk around his desk with this familiar determination he’s seen develop and bloom in her. Before he’s even able to stand up, she’s right there beside him, hugs him so suddenly that he’s scared he might just fall over, taking the chair down with him. She doesn’t let go, and it makes it so easy for him to just wrap his arms around her as she’s crouching down to his level. He’s holding his breath, unable to make himself believe they are still hugging, afraid his shoulders might be shaking; she seems to be waiting for him to unwind, but he finds he can’t do it: this is the first thing in ages that feels like it’s not been diminished by some kind of intermediate stop, not sent indirectly but meant to be received immediately and in an unattenuated condition.

As she’s still holding and holding on to him and he hopes his shoulders have loosened a little, he thinks he might understand, but it’s such a tiny thought that he doesn’t dare to move even one muscle to convey it. It’s her who – feeling his shoulders settle down and his breathing shyly resume – unwraps herself just a little bit so she can see his face. Their noses are dangerously close, and they both smell of soap and red wine and collateral damage, and it’s like everything is spinning and spinning until suddenly, their lips touch and everything else fades, until Coulson’s not sure anymore in which direction the door lies.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading :) I hope you know I love you guys for looking at my stuff. You're the best.
> 
> I fabricated the title from an e.e. cummings poem:
> 
>  
> 
> _a thing most new complete fragile intense,_  
>  _which wholly trembling memory undertakes_  
>  _—your kiss,the little pushings of flesh,makes_  
>  _my body sorry when the minute moon_  
>  _is a remarkable splinter in the quick_  
>  _of twilight_  
>  _….or if sunsets utters one_  
>  _unhurried muscled huge chromatic_  
>  _fist skilfully modeling silence_  
>  _—to feel how through the stopped entire day_  
>  _horribly and seriously thrills_  
>  _the moment of enthusiastic space_  
>  _is a little wonderful, and say_  
>  _Perhaps her body touched me;and to face_  
>  _suddenly the lighted living hills_


End file.
